


Distractions

by mojitobox



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addiction, Drugs, Gambling, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mojitobox/pseuds/mojitobox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens to the tiger, once master's gone away?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distractions

Isn’t that just how it’s done, though? Billabong, Shanghai, Guts, Oxford, Countdown,  _Poker._ Lowball, razz, 2-7 triple draw, high-low split, Anaconda , kill-game.

The world between your fingers and the rush is the same because the dice rolls snake-eyes no matter what you play and the fuck is never as good as the cigarette after because her tits are as fake as the smile she wears and you know she’s just here for the money, no matter how hard you make her come. And they’re always grateful for that, aren’t they? So grateful that you get them off and you find it fucking pathetic that someone would be surprised to get off during sex because isn’t it supposed to be a two-way thing?

It doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered, and you fucking love that, don’t you, you sick bastard? You love how the whores never say ‘no,’ how the rush fills you to the gills and you’d think a slick fucker like yourself would learn to hold on to his money once in a goddamn while, wouldn’t you? But it’s the addiction. The mind as fuzzy as cotton and the belly full of booze and the cock sucked by every pair of pretty lips from London to Hong Kong and back, and aren’t you something special? 

Blood on your hands and it’s the only time you can really see, isn’t it? The only time the world makes sense is when you’re behind the sights. There is cool metal beneath your fingers. Your hands do not shake. You take your time. The rifle is heavy against your shoulder, but the weight is comfortable and something you find solace in. This is where you belong, is it not? Here. Hunting. The wind is still in the air and the sun diffuses its light behind the cool face of a cloud, and this is your moment. Breathe out. Both eyes open.

The target falls and a woman screams, and high above it all you can still see the red of blood like the heart on a lucky seven and it’s back into the creature’s claws with you, Frankenstein. Back to Khali’s Kitten and it bites at you every night because without the work you are empty and stalling and this world never makes sense but still you try and still there are no orders and still you wait like a soldier in a field but  _he never comes back._

And so you return and return again, back to the arms of a woman who smells like lies and unfamiliar cologne, who grabs her own tits while you fuck like she can actually feel it and Jesus Christ you hate it all but it feels so good when you’re chasing the high because then, at least then you don’t have to think.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
